Stone in Saigon
by Akktri
Summary: GI's in Vietnam discover they have more to fear than just the Viet Cong.
1. Chapter 1: Rolling Stones

It was raining nearly to the point of zero visibility when the gargoyles started appearing in the jungle.

We all thought it was someone in the company playing an elaborate joke. Ugliest damned things I've ever laid eyes on.

They had the shape of angels, but their faces were hideous, glaring at us between the trees, lurking in the bushes.

I grabbed Bud, the nearest G.I., pointing off in the direction of the statues.

"Will you get this shit?" I said. "How the hell did they pull this one off?"

Bud shrugged and lifted up a joint, about the only this that would stay lit in this torrential downpour. "Beats me."

He gave me a smirk, but a prank of this magnitude was a little out of his price range.

I slapped a mosquito. Even heavy rains were no deterrent to the endless swarms of biting insects taking up residence in the undergrowth.

After taking a drag and staring for a minute, Bud added, "By the way, if you wanted K-Ration stew, you're S.O.L."

Our little campground had no cover, other than the leafy branches and vines hanging over our heads. We'd left our previous encampment in a hurry after a horrific VC blitz that killed half the platoon, so only one of us had a poncho.

Kiowa.

And the big Navajo was using it to fill up canteens.

Jackson, a buzz cut black man, was taking off one of his boots, dumping out about a gallon of water. "Hell, we should camp out under those things," he said.

"We can't," I said. "Remember that sniper up on the ridge?"

I frowned. "Speaking of which, did you see something move?"

"It's those statues, man," Bud said, puffing his reefer. "They're moving!"

"You should stay off that stuff," I told him. "We're low on MRE as it is."

"No, man, I'm serious," Bud laughed. "They're moving! Just watch them! They change, man!"

"Bullshit," I said. "You're high."

Lightning flashed in the distance, and I heard a murmur of thunder.

For a moment, it looked like the statues had crept forward a few inches, but I chalked it up to an overactive imagination.

The lightning flashed again, and a closer boom shifted my focus to other worries.

Miles ago, a few miles from the first helicopter drop where I entered this war, a storm struck one of the overhead trees, dropping a giant fiery torch into the foliage ahead of us. I'm not exactly sure why it happened, but that torch created a ten foot high wall of flame that took us an entire two days to circumvent.

I prayed this would not happen again. There's nothing worse than wading through a lichen infested bog and finding something squirming in your jockey shorts.

I picked up one of our pup tents, the kind you can only lay down inside, then thought against it. Half of our encampment was swampy mud.

"We should make those into ponchos," said Jackson. "As it stands, I'm certain I'll make it to the end of this war drinking nothing but water from my shirt!"

The sound of machine gun fire interrupted the relative stillness of the sodden jungle.

Kiowa rose to his feet, loading his rifle.

Jackson slapped his booth back on with a wet sucking sound. "The fuck?"

"Sound like VC," Kiowa muttered in his usual monotone.

The lightning flashed, and there was a statue standing right at the edge of our encampment.

It flashed again, and, after a few bursts of semiautomatic fire, Jackson was a bloody pulp in the mud, the statue frozen over him, claws clamped around his neck. It reminded me of the slow strobe lights people used in haunted houses, how the burst of light would appear to freeze the masked ghoul in time when it really was moving the whole time.

I didn't think. I just leaped over a log and ran into the downpour. I didn't even think to bring my gun.

I heard loud pops as Kiowa fired at the things again and again, alternating between swearing in Navajo and swearing in English, then there was silence.

I kept running.


	2. Chapter 2: POW

My recollection of what happened after the attack is a little confused.

In the panic to get away, I stumbled aimlessly in the rain, lost in a mass of vines and jungle ferns that slapped me as I ran through them.

At one point, I fell into a stagnant pool, and afterward spent several minutes cutting leeches off my body with a hunting knife.

I must have wandered for miles in the downpour, constantly checking and double checking over my shoulder.

In fear of the Commies.

In fear of..._something worse_.

I stepped forward on a leafy stretch of ground, and my foot went through.

A second later, a sharpened bamboo rod skewers my foot, right through the hard soled boot, exploding through the leather on the other side.

Punji sticks.

One of Charlie's sick little traps.

I tried my hardest to pull free without alerting the enemy, but I screamed.

By the time I was out, I found myself surrounded by a group of yellow faced VC, all armed with Russian assault weapons. I raised my hands in surrender.

The men hog tied me to a pole, carrying me through the jungle like a trophy deer, laughing and joking the whole time.

A few minutes later, and I was thrown into a tiny concrete cell, and they locked the rusted metal doors.

My cage was dark, smelling of rot and piss. A man in a brown two piece suit lay in one corner, apparently dead.

I retreated into a back corner, silently watching the endless sheet of rain falling outside the bars.

Since the VC hadn't bothered to treat me, wincing in pain, I gingerly took off my boot, using torn strips from my shirt as a bandage.

All of a sudden, I hear the man in the suit groaning, and he rolls over and looks at me. Crazy looking Brit, with a big head and an enormous chin.

"Could you please tell the man at the front desk I ordered a double? Because this one's a little small."

I smirked a little, but my foot was still throbbing, and I was in a lot of pain.

I just stared at him. "What's with the tux? Performing for the troops?"

My question seemed to puzzle him.

"When am I?" he said slowly. "What...year is it."

His response answered a lot of unasked questions. More than likely, I had stumbled across a VC brainwashing center, and this man was their last victim.

"Poor bastard," I muttered.

"Wait, no. Don't tell me," the man blurted. "It's 1963, isn't it?"

I only stared.

"1962?"

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

"A few days," he said. "Have you seen my sonic screwdriver?"

I shook my head and said I hadn't. The VC would have turned our pockets out anyway.

"Terrific," he said with a frown.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Oh?" the man replied. "People just call me the Doctor."

"Great," I said. "Then can you take a look at my foot?"


	3. Chapter 3: Cell Mate

This "Doctor" fellow sucked in his breath when he saw what happened to my foot.

"Well. _That's_ not good!"

"No it's not," I groaned. "Please, Doc, isn't there something you can do?"

The man patted his pockets.

"I'm sorry, chap. It appears I am at a distinct disadvantage. You see, those Asian blokes have taken away my supplies!"

Noting my expression of disappointment, he said, "Tell you what. My clothes are cleaner than yours. Could make a better bandage."

He took out a silk handkerchief, wrapping it around my wound, then set about ripping off pieces of his vest, tying it around the silk. He even suggested I take one of his shoes, but it was too small for me to wear, even without the bandages.

"So," I said. "Where are you from?"

"Oh?" he coughed. "Here and there. Been in London a fair bit. How about yourself?"

"Sedalia. Wouldn't be here if it hadn't been for the fucking draft."

"Ah," the man said uncomfortably. "Yes, that draft _was_ a bit presumptuous. However, in a few years (ahem) _hopefully_ in a few years, they'll do away with it completely, and find better ways to make people enlist. Like, say, _college scholarships_. Can't say it _didn't_ improve popular music..."

I just stared at him.

"Sedalia," the man said, shaking his head. "My condolences. The State Fair, however, is top notch."

He grabbed the bars of the cell, pushing and pulling on them. They didn't budge.

"Any ideas on how to get out?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," I shrugged. "Most of them involve us ending up in a pine box. My whole company got killed by a bunch of weird statues, so nobody cares where I am. What about you? Anyone missing you?"

He shook his head. "I'm afraid they won't be of much help. They're...not combat trained."

"More performers?" I asked.

He paused a minute, then nodded. "Police woman slash exotic dancer. Not terribly useful for a heroic army rescue."

"Hey, anything's worth a shot. Anyone else working with her?"

"Just her husband. Scrawny bloke. Sort of..._flighty_."

"Shit."

The Doctor froze. "Wait. Did you just say you were attacked by statues?"

"More or less," I said.

"Did they...look like angels, by chance?"

I nodded. "Damn creepy things. Thought it was a prank at first."

"Not good," the Doctor muttered. "Not good at all."

"Do you know something about those things?"

"Unfortunately yes. Nasty piece of work. Only move when you're not looking. Can't even blink. I'm surprised you were able to escape without them killing you."

"Just lucky, I guess."

The Doctor glanced at my foot. "Not _that_ lucky."

He glanced at the gate. "You might be onto something with that pine box. Perhaps if we fake our deaths..."

I frowned. "They'll probably stab us in the throat, just to make sure before they dump us in a hole somewhere."

That took the wind out of his sails. "Well, _there is_ that..."

We suddenly heard someone shouting, and automatics going off.

"What's that?" the Doctor said.

"I don't know. Maybe the cavalry?"

"I thought you said-"

I hushed him, hobbling to the cell door.

A second later, in a flash of lightning, I see an ugly gray statue pressing up against the bars, baring its fearsome fangs and claws.

I blinked, and I swear the thing roared at me.

When my eyes opened again, its claw was on the latch, its stone face frozen in a twisted open mouthed roar.


End file.
